


Past Shadows

by TheSailingRabbit



Series: Bad Company [8]
Category: Alien Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Drama, Diary/Journal, F/M, Gen, POV First Person, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSailingRabbit/pseuds/TheSailingRabbit
Summary: Events of the past continue to haunt Drake, and they steadily become harder to avoid. Official-looking envelopes, fellow soldiers suffering from trauma, and his own personal issues make daily life a hassle, but Drake fears everything will go downhill for him when a pair of USCM officers arrive for an unplanned visit.
Relationships: Mark Drake/Jenette Vasquez
Series: Bad Company [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783390





	1. Chapter 1

I've never really seen the point of pools being used for "organized exercise." You can't organize things in a damn pool; either they float away or everyone's like, "Oh, boy! Water!" and we start goofing off.

Anyway, on base, we don't use the pool for "organized exercise." Frankly, if we did, I imagine we'd look like the little old ladies doing aerobics in community pools that only get cleaned once or twice a season. We use the pool for "unorganized exercise."

You know. Sports and stuff. That kind of exercise. Exercise where we can push each other.

I remember there was a pool in both the high school and middle school I went to. The boys and girls would never have class together during pool session. In the Marines, we always have class together, and there's no one to tell you that you can't push a girl. Frankly, the girls don't care if you push them, because they'll push right back. I mean, there's more than just pushing. I don't think I've ever encountered a sport more violent than water basketball with Colonial Marines.

But, it was really damn quiet and a whole lot less violent without Hudson.

Not that long ago, Hudson accidentally ran into a lab for silver flowers, toxic plants that give off hallucinogenic fumes and restrict your breathing. I got him out in time, but he ended up being transported to a hospital in Washington, D.C., where he was under the care of a scientist who used his condition for experiments. We can all safely assume Hudson was traumatized by his experience, but I didn't think it would effect him as badly as it has.

It's been a week since coming back to base in Australia, and the poor guy has changed. At least he's talking again; when he was picked up from the hospital, he was mute for almost forty-eight hours.

He's normally not the kind of person to isolate himself. He's usually loud and irritating during training, but now, he's quieter and just takes orders with no wise-ass comments. What's worse is that his quarters are right next to mine, and I can hear him locking the door to his bathroom and sobbing.

I know how he feels. I've been poisoned by the silver flowers before-two times, actually-and I feel obliged to help him because of that. It isn't a very good feeling, especially when you have no idea how to help the other person. I'm definitely not going to tell Hudson to just keep swallowing his pain every single day. That's how a lot of my problems started. I know what not to do, but I also don't know what would be the right thing to do. Because of that, I've been spending a lot of my time thinking about good ideas, which loosely translates to "nothing."

Anyway, yeah, it's been really quiet without Hudson.

It wasn't the most boring game of water basketball I've ever played. After all, Vasquez and I were on opposite teams, and we spent the whole time trying to block each other. She took the opportunity when we were on the far side of the pool, away from everyone else, to whisper to me. "Did you lose weight on your trip?"

"Kinda," I replied. "I think I look better than I did before. You don't like it?"

"No, I like it. Don't start going crazy, though-"

"Hey! The game's over, lovebirds!" Apone yelled from the other end of the pool.

Of course, with nothing interesting going on, the game ended a lot earlier than it usually does. Everyone else disappeared into the locker rooms, while Vasquez and I remained on the deck. I glanced around, making sure only Vasquez was listening. "I was thinking about how I need to stop putting myself down, how I have to stop beating myself up and kicking myself when I'm on the ground."

"And have you stopped beating yourself up?"

"No, not really. I acknowledged that it was a problem, though, and I'm trying to work on it."

Vasquez nodded a little while tossing the towel over her shoulder. "I thought a lot about you when you were gone. Well-" she rolled her eyes, "I shouldn't say 'thought.' I _worried_ about you. A lot. For the first time, I . . . was finding it hard to conceal that from everyone else. I couldn't seem to handle two blows so close together, first being your sentence on the station, the second being this trip."

"I'm here now," I said. "I won't be leaving anytime soon. I hope."

"Better not leave anytime soon. Maybe I should insist on going with you."

I grinned. "Maybe you should. People would be suspicious, though."

"I know. Wouldn't hurt to try."

We stood in silence for a few minutes, until I broke the quiet with, "I missed you a lot."

Vasquez didn't reply. She glanced at me, then headed to the women's locker room.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm tired of standing here, soaking wet. I'd like to change. Is that too much to ask?"

"I'm just asking because you walked away after I told you I missed you. You told me you were worried about me, and I said I missed you."

"Yeah? That's it. We said our piece. Now we can go about our day."

"I still think something's bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me, Drake. Drop the subject." Vasquez disappeared into the locker room before I could say anything else.

* * *

I walked out of the men's locker room still under the impression that Vasquez had something on her mind, but I didn't have a lot of time to dwell on it. While still adjusting my pants, Bishop approached me with a small stack of envelopes. "Mail delivery, Drake," he said.

"Is this a joke?" I asked. "I don't get mail."

Bishop shrugged. "It's all got your name on it, and the return addresses were confirmed by the USCM mail service."

"Alright, alright." I took the envelopes from him. When he was out of sight, I grinned a little when I saw one of the envelopes was from a Miranda Harrison. I met Miranda during my trip to Washington last week, and while we did help each other with a couple of personal issues, we also created some personal issues because Miranda liked me. As in the more-than-friends kind of liked. I took advantage of that in order to get information on Hudson. Although that blew up in my face (which was my fault), Miranda and I agreed to remain friends, and I said it was OK we write to each other.

I wrote in my previous journal that I was worried Vasquez would come across one of these letters and think I was cheating on her, but I also knew Vasquez has a lot of common sense and would probably listen to me before punching me in the face over it. I mean, she'd still punch me for not saying anything earlier, but you get the picture.

Anyway, I grinned because Miranda simply couldn't wait a little longer before sending me a letter. I get that in this day and age where mail is delivered pretty quickly, a week can seem like a long time, but still.

My grin faded when I looked at the other envelope, which was much larger than a letter. It had a return city that I recognized, even though I was certain I had driven it out of my memory. _Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania_.

Glancing over my shoulder, I started heading to my quarters to read this in private. After closing the door behind me, I undid the clasp on the envelope before removing the contents, all of which had official-looking typing and handwriting. Each individual paper had the stamp of the Pittsburgh school district, namely the high school, and it didn't take me long to see what it was all for: the board of education was offering me a chance to get my GED.

They may as well have sent someone to the main gate of the base to call me out, and then slap me across the face while saying, "Remember how you didn't finish high school, Drake?! _Remember?!_ Remember how you got sent to prison?! Here's a chance to complete your education, Drake. Enjoy all the painful memories, too."

I know that's not their intention, but it still felt that way. According to the letter, this wasn't an opportunity every kid who left high school early could receive. Because I accepted the chance to join the Marines instead of finishing out my prison time, that's redemption according to the school board, so I could take the GED test, have it be completely paid for, and get my diploma so I could get a regular job whenever I leave the Marines. It's not a bad deal.

The problem I had was that it was digging up a lot of thoughts and memories that I was trying to deal with. Not only that, but I didn't want to deal with whatever the rest of my squad thought if they found out.

* * *

My thoughts were everywhere during dinner, and all I could basically do was hope that no one was trying to talk to me. As I looked at the unappetizing, recently-taken-out-of-the-freezer rations in front of me, I thought about how I had dined pretty well back in D.C. That was definitely one thing I missed.

I knew having a diploma would give me a better chance at getting a job. Surely, I could get a job somewhere in D.C., and I could eat better more often. My stomach growled as soon as the idea crossed my mind, but I quickly became embarrassed when I realized everyone heard that.

"Food's right in front of you, Drake," Hicks said.

"I think he knows," Vasquez added, "but he got used to the fine dining in the city."

Everyone else laughed, and then I heard Frost say, "Cornbread and freeze-dried turkey not good enough for ya, Drake?"

"Fuck you guys," I muttered, picking up a piece of cornbread.

"Will you knuckle-nuts knock it off?" Apone snapped. "Drake, eat your Goddamn chow. I don't give a rat's ass if you're used to fine dining or whatever; you will eat what we put in front of you, even if it's a sock we find in the back of Hudson's locker."

"Yes, sir," I said, softly.

I can imagine all the smartass things Hudson would say, but he was just sitting at the end of the table, staring at his food. Apone didn't accuse him of being lazy, or told him that he needed to stop being so "irritable and moody." Almost immediately, I felt like Hudson's trauma was more visible than mine, and that was why no one was giving him a hard time. Why did everyone give me a hard time?

Anger began boiling in the pit of my stomach. I knew I couldn't say anything, because I'd be accused of being a liar. I had to let it go. I simply bottled things up better than Hudson; his problems were written all over his face.

I spent the rest of dinner keeping everything to myself, and the longer I stayed quiet, the more I just wanted to explode.

* * *

After dinner, I immediately went back to my quarters. My self-loathing told me that everyone had a good reason to give me a hard time, but my common sense told me that I didn't deserve this kind of treatment.

Sitting on my bed, I took a deep breath, trying to tell myself that I shouldn't let this bother me. This had to be one of the dumbest things to get angry over. With that, I took another breath, and headed into the bathroom to shower before getting settled for the night.

While I was in the shower, I heard someone knock on the door. "Who is it?" I called.

"It's me," Vasquez replied. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." I turned off the water and opened the shower door to grab my towel.

Vasquez entered the bathroom, observing me tying the towel around my waist. "I came to say 'sorry.'"

"For what?"

"For the fine-dining comment. I noticed you looked upset afterward."

"That's not why I was upset," I replied. "I'm upset because of Hudson. I want to know what makes his experience worse than mine. How come Apone lets him sit around, but gets mad at me when I sat around during my illness? How come everyone leaves Hudson alone, but when I got back from my punishment, I'm still treated like nothing's wrong."

Vasquez shrugged. "Hudson's making it more obvious that something's wrong."

"Big fucking deal! You all knew about what happened to me!"

"Drake, why do you feel like you should be receiving the same treatment as Hudson?"

"That's not the point. The point is that I feel like I don't matter to any of you! I could get shot in combat and you'd still go help someone else rather than me."

"OK, you know that's not true. We don't leave comrades behind in battle. Besides, I thought you said you worked on not putting yourself down when you were in D.C."

"Yeah, well, that changed. It doesn't take that much for any kind of progress I make to be flushed back down the fucking drain." I slammed shut the shower door. "Everyone else around me can improve their lives and get promotions and medals and friends and love and better jobs and what do I fucking get? Bad luck, setbacks, and post-traumatic stress disorder!"

Vasquez raised an eyebrow. Her jaw parted slightly as if to say something, but then she closed it, still giving me a confused look. "Drake . . . you didn't . . ."

"I wouldn't be saying anything about it if Delhoun didn't bring it up during a phone call in D.C. Just . . . I listed everything that was wrong, and he said it's highly likely I'm suffering from PTSD because I'm having such a hard time dealing with the nightmares and memories I have of those damn silver flowers."

"Why didn't you say something when you got back?"

"Because I could get kicked out of the Marines! I could lose my job, and I'll never get another one because no one would ever hire an emotionally disturbed man and think it's a good idea."

"Drake, you don't even have a diagnosis. As long as you don't bring it up with any medics around here, you're fine." Vasquez grabbed my shoulder, squeezing it hard. "You really did lose weight. I can feel some bones in there."

Part of me didn't appreciate her changing the subject, but I knew she was trying to make me feel better. I think she understood what I was saying, but needed time before coming up with a good answer. I like that about her. With that in mind, I gave a weak smile, prompting her to move closer to me and touch my chin. I leaned down to nuzzle her forehead, and she tipped her head up to kiss me.

"Do you feel better?" she whispered.

"No," I whispered back. "Let me get dressed, and then maybe we can-"

Vasquez shook her head. "Not tonight."

"Is everything-"

"I'm not up for it. Sorry. I would . . . I would rather talk to you."

"OK. I understand. Still, can I get dressed? Wait outside."

After getting a pair of shorts on, I left the bathroom to find Vasquez sitting on the edge of my bed. I sat next to her, putting my arms around her. "So, whaddaya want to talk about?"

She sighed. "Remember how I kinda pushed you away earlier, when we left the pool?"

I nodded.

"I probably should've handled that better. I mean, I thought the conversation was over and then you say 'I missed you,' and . . . I don't know."

"What? Got a little tongue-tied for a minute? That's OK. You got me a little nervous, though, that something was wrong."

"No, nothing's wrong. It's just . . . you keep going away, and it's almost like I'm waiting for the day that you go away for good."

"I'm not going away for good." I kissed her cheek. "I promise."

"Is that something you can promise?"

"Did I come back when I said I would from the trip to D.C.? I know I said 'I promise' then, didn't I?"

"You did."

"At least I didn't have a near-death experience, like last time." I shrugged. "Come on, why can't you be happy when I'm around? Did I do something wrong? You know I was thinking of you the whole trip. You know I loved you the whole trip."

"Did you really? Was I the first person you thought of when you woke up?"

"To be realistic, no. The first person I thought of was me, then you, then Hudson, then-"

"OK, I really don't care what order you put everyone in. I'm not denying that you were thinking of me. I just think you love going places by yourself a little too much."

"Hey, what's wrong with that? I actually think it's helping me."

"Well, I don't think it is. If it did, you wouldn't have yelled at me a few minutes ago about how you think we like Hudson better than you."

I sighed. "I didn't have a major transformation. Fixing yourself doesn't happen overnight. Why are you convinced this happens every time I go somewhere by myself?"

"I'm not convinced. I just wish you would actually put some effort into putting the Goddamn past behind you instead of letting it consume you every single day! You weren't like this when we first met."

"Are you saying I shouldn't be changing, period?"

"No. You need to change for the better, and you're just . . . not. Every time you say you've changed, you don't; you go back to dwelling on your past. It's like a nightmarish cycle. You need to get out of it!"

I couldn't argue with anything she said, because I knew she was right. It was painful to know, but, I had to know. That was all part of solving your problems; acknowledging they exist. Then again, I've known about my problems for a long time. I hate it when people point them out, but it's a little different when it comes from someone who's cared about you for several years, especially when they're on the verge of tears because of it. I've said before that it's extremely rare Vasquez cries, so I knew I fucked up big time when I saw tears rolling down her face after she shook my shoulders, as if that was going to do anything.


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up earlier than everyone else on base, and had a hard time going back to sleep. The sun was starting to glare through the window blinds, making it more difficult to even try to sleep. When I gave up, I let out an irritated groan before forcing myself out of bed. I didn't even feel like documenting yesterday in my journal.

After getting dressed, I opened the window shades, squinting in the bright light. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see a stretch of grass, then the faint blue line of the ocean. For some reason, it felt dream-like; probably because we don't go that far away from the base, unless we're going to the mainland of Australia.

I sighed, wishing I could go and sit in the ocean for an hour or two. I also wished my nerves weren't fried so easily.

Leaving my room, I walked down the hall until reaching the mess hall, and saw Apone sitting at the table with a newspaper and coffee cup. "'Morning, Sarge," I said.

"Private," Apone replied. "Why the hell're you up so early?"

"Can't sleep."

"Can't sleep? Well, you were sleeping like a baby when Hudson decided to go out for a midnight stroll."

I frowned. "What?"

"Yeah. Around twelve-thirty, I hear someone pacing the hall, talking to himself. I get up, open the door, and there's Hudson, walking around in his underpants, muttering about how he keeps having bad dreams about those motherfucking flowers." Apone set the paper down. "Took three people to get him back in his room." He looked at me. "I'm not going to tolerate this for much longer. We can't afford to lose a man like Hudson."

There were a lot of things I wanted to say, mainly about how everyone else thought that I was unimportant compared to Hudson. I knew that was going to result in me digging myself a deep grave, so I said nothing.

"How'd you deal with the aftermath of your incident, Drake?"

My heart skipped a beat. Apone was actually asking for my advice? I looked around, wondering if someone else named Drake was in the room. There's no way anyone in this squad wants my advice for anything. "Wait . . . me, sir?"

He gave me a dirty look. "Yeah, you. Who else in this squad got poisoned?"

I bit my lip, hoping that everything I said came out right. "Well, I'm . . . I'm still dealing with the aftermath, to be honest. I might be functioning better than Hudson, but it's not without a price." I found myself internally panicking, knowing that everything I said wasn't going to help Hudson at all. "I can sum it up in a sentence or two: I've done a horrible job dealing with the aftermath of the flowers. It doesn't help that I have a lot of regrets in my past and that I don't know how to accept that I screwed up and just move on. I know I went through the same thing as Hudson, but I'm not the right person to help him, not when I can't help myself."

"I think you _can_ help him. Obviously, you know what not to do. Just do the opposite with Hudson."

"It's not that easy." I resisted the urge to go into detail about what went on in my mind after being poisoned the first time.

"You haven't tried. Just because you don't think it'll work doesn't mean you shouldn't try. I'm tasking you with this, Drake. Whether or not you think it's going to be easy is irrelevant; the important thing is that we need a fully functioning group of Marines. Clearly, you haven't been helping with that recently. If you can't handle working with everyone else, or you can't handle working, period, then I suggest you get your discharge papers ready. We'll drop you off at the nearest civilian airport with your bags."

I nodded, my chest starting to ache. "Yes, sir." With nothing else to say, I left the room, wondering what more stupid things could I say before I was completely screwed over.

* * *

After getting permission to go into Brisbane to ask a friend of mine for advice, I was curious as to why I was constantly being antagonized. I had felt the same way right before going to Washington, but it was now that I pondered the reasoning behind it. Honestly, I could understand why Apone thought I was unproductive; I had been leaving a lot and getting sick a lot and I wasn't contributing anything. On the other hand, I wondered if he was trying to help me by making me mad so I'd push myself harder.

I spotted Doctor Delhoun in a fenced area of the facility he created for helping Annexers, rodent-like aliens that wear gas masks. I've never seen him out of uniform, but here he was, sitting in the grass in shorts and a T-shirt, giving treats to all his precious Annexers.

"Hello, Drake," he said, cheerfully.

I leaned against the fence. "Hey. Do you have a minute?"

"I do." Delhoun stood up, unlocking the gate. "Come on in. Have a seat in the grass." As soon as I sat down, Delhoun handed me a plastic bag of treats. "Those are baked peanut butter balls," he said. "It's got melted chocolate and walnuts in the center. The Annexers love it. You can have one, too, if you want." He crossed his legs, smirking when his pet, Winnie, began sniffing around me. "So, what's going on?"

"I need help regarding Hudson."

"Ah. I knew that was going to become a problem-Drake, don't tease her. She'll scratch you."

I glanced to my right to see a helmetless Winnie trying to reach for the treat in my hand, and then held it out to her. She snatched it away with her teeth, and sprinted over to a tree where around fifteen other Annexers were playing or hiding or resting.

Delhoun grinned. "Anyway, I'm guessing that Hudson's not adjusting well?"

I shook my head. "He hasn't been himself at all."

"That's to be expected. I don't think I'd be myself if I was forcefully given infections, starved for twelve hours, and displayed like a freak to university students." Delhoun sighed. "People deal with trauma in their own way. I think it's important you and the rest of your squad make sure he doesn't deal with it in ways that would hurt himself or others."

"I think you're just pointing out the obvious, like you did with me in D.C. That doesn't help."

"I'm not an expert on this. I told you that. I may not be an expert on trauma or silver flowers, but as a friend, I'm going to give you any advice I can." He set his bag of treats next to him before folding his hands in his lap. "Talk to Hudson as much as possible. Recovery works best with another person, but it doesn't start until you trust each other. Get him to trust you so he can open up about his nightmares."

"Is that it?"

"No. That's the most you're capable of doing right now. You're not a therapist, but you do know what he's going through."

"Yeah, and I failed to fix myself. Why should that make me the best guy to help Hudson?"

"I think you'll figure it out once you start talking to him." Delhoun picked up the plastic bag before standing up. "By the way, I have a message from Aran, in case you're wondering where he is. He wrote to me a few days ago saying the plane he hitchhiked on had to make an emergency stop in Madagascar due to a storm. He'd probably be here by now, but he's enjoying his time there."

"Figures. Probably doesn't even say he misses me."

"That's complete and utter bullshit, Drake. He does miss you and he hopes you're doing OK."

"Did he say that in his letter? We barely even talked last time we saw each other."

"Of course he did. I can show it to you, if you want." Delhoun opened the gate. "Did you have breakfast? I have leftover pancakes."

"I'm not hungry," I lied. As soon as Delhoun wasn't looking, I put one of the peanut butter things in my mouth. Come on, it was just peanut butter, chocolate, and walnuts. I think Delhoun would've told me if there was some kind of mix in there strictly for animals.

As I followed Delhoun into the building, I realized the Annexer treat was very dry and difficult to chew. It tasted OK, but it was just so damn dry. "Maybe you shouldn't bake these," I mumbled.

Delhoun glanced at me. "Why?"

"It's dry."

"It's supposed to be dry. The baking holds everything together."

"Well, then, how the hell do you eat these on a regular basis?"

"I don't eat them on a regular basis. It was just a fun little project I did because I'm trying to add more to Annexers on the pet market by creating simple things owners can do at home." He led me into the kitchen, where he searched his oversize refrigerator for those pancakes. "If you'd like to help out, I'd appreciate it."

"I know you would, but I'm busy," I replied. "I'm trying to help Hudson, remember?"

"Understandable." Delhoun set a plate in front of me, then sat at the table with a steaming cup of coffee. "Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

I thought for a moment, wondering if it was a good idea to tell Delhoun about the envelope with a chance to take a test for my GED. He wouldn't tell anyone, right? "Yesterday, I got a big packet in the mail. My old school in Pittsburgh . . . they're giving me a chance to get my diploma."

"That's good. Have you set up the dates to take the test?"

"Not yet. I have no idea what the fuck I'm gonna do. I don't even want to tell people about this."

"Interesting. This is a good opportunity for you. Having a diploma gives you more access to jobs if you leave the Marines. I don't see why you wouldn't want to tell people."

"Well, I'm . . . I'm really not comfortable with it."

"Why? There's nothing to be _uncomfortable_ with. A lot of people have had to take this test."

"It reminds me of everything I did wrong. I can't focus on the test itself if I'm thinking about my past mistakes and how . . . how I'm a failure of a human being. Plus, the fact that I currently _don't_ have a diploma just tells everyone I'm stupid."

Working his jaw as he thought, Delhoun nodded a little. "I can see why you would feel that way."

" And I don't want to tell anyone. I just don't."

"Why?"

"I don't need the burden of other people knowing."

"Someone has to know. This is kind of important, Drake."

I sighed, knowing I needed time to mull this over. Just like everything else in my life.

* * *

I wish I didn't stuff myself with pancakes while visiting Delhoun, because it was already lunchtime when I got back, and I didn't want to provide the look of "I'm too good for the cornbread," after last night's incident.

Right before I sat down, Hicks said, "Drake, can you go get Hudson from his room? Thanks."

Without saying a word, I headed toward the hallway. Again, I still don't understand why I'm being pushed down like this. There has to be a good reason, and I'm just too stupid to figure it out. That being said, I couldn't be bitter and upset when talking to Hudson. I knew Apone gave me the task of helping him, and if I wanted to feel more important, I couldn't fail.

Then again, I've failed everywhere else in my life. Why should now be any different?

I was a little surprised that Hudson answered the door, but what surprised me even more was the fact that he was looking a lot healthier than I thought he'd look. Of course, that could be from the experimental medicine that Hornby gave him, which I, for one, didn't fully trust. His medication contains Annexer hormones, which act as a flushing agent to get the poison out. It has a horrendous side effect, though; if Hudson gets stressed, that hormone will flood his brain and basically turn him into an animal until it wears off or someone has to shoot him with a tranquilizer. So far, he hasn't gone wild since returning to base, but, again, I don't trust Hornby, and Hornby certainly hasn't helped anyone by not telling anyone that's what that fucking pill can do.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" I asked, wanting to get right to the point.

He nodded, and gestured for me to come inside. "I know everything went to shit when you saw me in the hospital, but am I right in remembering you saying something about nightmares making you weak?"

"Yeah . . . you're right. W-Why do you-"

"I dunno. 'Cause I'm starting to think it's true." Hudson rubbed his face, droplets of silver sweat appearing. "Every Goddamn night, I start thinking I'm gonna wake up back in that lab. Even if I get to sleep, I start dreaming about it. I feel like I can't breathe. Sometimes, I'm afraid that's gonna translate to the real world, and I'll have trouble breathing while I'm asleep." He looked at me, the ghost of panic in his eyes. "You know what that's like, right?"

I shifted my weight. A part of me was worried this was going to set that hormone off and Hudson was going to tackle me or bite me or something. I remained calm, though, knowing acting scared of him probably wasn't going to help. "My dreams are a little different, but I understand that it's frustrating when you just can't stop thinking about them. Every time someone mentions the flowers, I suddenly feel like I can't breathe, if that's what you're trying to ask me about."

Something snapped within Hudson. His cheeks flushed red and his eyes began to sparkle with tears. They rolled down his face as he clenched his fists and began screaming at me. " _I don't know why I have this feeling that I should quit! I can't quit! I don't want to quit! I love my job, and I don't want to leave it!_ " A variety of fluids covered his face, all of them tinged with silver. "I signed up for this because I wanted to do something with my life. I couldn't do anything right back home, so I came here and I found something that makes me feel like I got a purpose. Why should I throw all this away? Why do I have voices in my head telling me to quit?"

"Are they saying why you should quit?"

"No. I-It's very sudden . . . it's like . . . like . . . I never had that feeling till now."

Hudson's feelings of hopelessness were stemming directly from the side effects of the toxin, and maybe even the medication. There was no doubt about it. Frankly, it made my feelings of hopelessness worse considering all I've been through, but I definitely wasn't going to say that. "I wish I could come up with something better, but, the best I can say is don't listen to that feeling. I know it's hard because it's there all the time, but try to counter it with other thoughts. Fight it. I fight myself regularly, and even though it's an uphill battle, I've had a few victories." I sighed. "I'm sorry. That's probably . . . not the best advice."

"You're trying, man, that's all that matters."

That actually brought a faint smile to my face. In fact, it made me want to take a step onto the creaky, rotting bridge called "perseverance." A lot of people have told me that it's good I'm trying, but it felt different coming from someone who doesn't know the whole story. It felt different coming from someone who was experiencing something very similar to what I was experiencing.

I just wish I could take more than one step onto this damn bridge.


	3. Chapter 3

Not too long after having lunch and trying to talk to Hudson about what was going on, I had a bad case of heartburn. It was a perfect opportunity to be alone for all of five minutes, so I went into my personal bathroom to take an antacid. After swallowing the tablet and chasing it with water, I had a brief flashback while looking at myself in the mirror. I saw myself in the restroom by the gym in high school. I remember it was about a week until summer during my sophomore year-you know, just a few weeks until I completely fucked my life over. With nothing more to do, the gym classes were doing a lot more fun activities, and we had just started a game of football.

I remember I wasn't very good. I remember the others didn't exactly want me on their team for that reason, so I was usually picked after the good kids were chosen. I would try my hardest, even though I oftentimes wasn't sure what I was doing.

There's a certain feeling that accompanies doing something you don't have a lot of confidence in doing, but you do it anyway because you want to look your best in front of others. It feels like you're going to vomit all over yourself. Not just vomit, but simply straight up puke on yourself-your shirt, your pants, your boots, everything. Few things in life are as embarrassing as that. A hundred things could go wrong while you're out there, trying to make yourself look good. Basically, you're scared out of your wits, and you wish you weren't human.

After being picked third-to-last, I joined the rest of my team. I wasn't sure what to do, what position to play, and all that. I don't even think the others told me what to do, like I was expected to just tackle people. Well, I did, and I almost got my entire ribcage shattered. I tackled someone when I wasn't supposed to, and he turned around, thinking I wanted to fight, and body-slammed me during the next play. I struggled to breathe for a good few minutes, and disappeared to the restroom, embarrassed and afraid.

In the time I was lost in thought, I realized I could've been thinking of ways to get Hudson to talk about what had happened while he was with Hornby so I could help him. And I wasn't.

* * *

My mood barely improved during dinner, but I was glad to see Hudson making an effort to talk to people again. He wasn't back to his loud, obnoxious self, but it was better than nothing. With that effort came people applauding him and giving him claps on the back.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," Frost said. "Here, have some more peas."

I looked at Vasquez while everyone else tried trading away their food to Hudson. "Where're my fucking peas?"

"Drake, don't start. You don't even like the peas here." Vasquez muttered. "I'll give you a piece of marble cake if you stop complaining."

I bit my tongue, but couldn't help smiling.

"What?"

"You don't have marble cake, do you? They rarely serve that."

Vasquez pulled something small and wrapped in plastic from one of her pockets. The holy grail of all MRE snacks because it's the one thing that's actually good and makes you wish you got a bigger piece-the cakes that look like they got run over by a car. "I stole this after lunch."

There were a lot of things I'd say if we were alone. "You really work miracles, don't you, honey?"

She gave me a sharp elbow in my thigh. "Shut up, Drake."

As we were finishing up, Bishop strolled into the room. "Sergeant? General Russell and Colonel Hardy are here to see you and the squad."

"Send them in," Apone said. He looked toward the doorway, but kept glancing at us so we didn't start fucking around whenever his back was turned.

I met Russell in person in DC, and I've seen Hardy at every mission briefing, but I'm not all that sure of how he is as a person outside his professional life. All I know is that he and Russell are the bosses and I gotta behave in front of them. I mean, I have to, because I don't want to go back to jail.

" _Attention!_ " Hardy barked.

We all stood up, silence dropping over the mess hall faster than you could blink. I remembered the pancakes from this morning, and unconsciously sucked in my stomach.

Russell looked at Hicks first. "You put in a recommendation for Private Drake to receive a medal of bravery for his actions rescuing Private Hudson?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Hicks yelled.

Russell stepped aside for Hardy to walk down the line of Marines. Hardy looked us up and down. All of us were standing perfectly still, expressionless. I noticed Wierzbowski sweating a little, occasionally looking down at his boots, and Spunkmeyer looked like he was thinking hard about something (what, I couldn't tell). Of course, Dietrich had it easy standing still and not showing any emotion. I don't even think her eyes moved. Vasquez's eyes were closed until she sensed Hardy getting closer. Hudson twitched once, and I could practically feel Hicks staring at him and silently urging him to keep still. Crowe's eyes were following Hardy, but then he looked straight ahead when Hardy turned to him. Ferro elbowed Spunkmeyer in the stomach when he let out a sigh.

Hardy nodded as he observed our discipline. "Very nice," he said to himself as he evaluated Frost's perfect posture.

Then he got to me, and calmly walked in front of me with his arms behind his back. "Private Drake?"

I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "Yes, sir."

"Why does Corporal Hicks want you to have a medal, son?"

I really didn't want to think about what had happened in the lab. It was as traumatic for me as it was for Hudson. It made me sick to think about Hudson gasping for breath, foaming at the mouth, trying to scream, trying to cry, trying to just keep breathing and survive. He was writhing and gasping and I could remember blood starting mixing in with the saliva . . . It pains me now writing it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep my thoughts and terror and flashbacks under control, even though Hudson's screams and horrific choking sounds were echoing in the back of my mind. "I . . . I rescued Hudson from-"

Hardy's calmness faded quickly. "Speak up, Private!"

"I rescued Hudson from a contaminated lab, sir." It took a lot of strength to keep from curling up into a ball and crying.

Hardy gave a slow nod. "Do you have people who can confirm that for you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can Hudson himself confirm that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you trying to speak for him?"

"No, sir." I took a breath.

"You getting nervous there, Private?"

"No, sir." I tried to control my breathing, but as I mentally told myself to do that, I thought about how Delhoun told me to "control my breathing" when I was locked in the silver flower lab on the orbital hospital. My heart began pounding faster, and my throat began to close. My brain started to panic, but the presence of so many people prevented my body from doing anything. _I need help. I need help. I need help,_ repeated in my head, and I suddenly felt like my chest was being crushed. I could hear Delhoun yelling at me to "hang in there." At the same time, the residual thoughts about rescuing Hudson were beginning to mix into my own trauma. I could hear his screaming along with mine. My jaw opened, but not sound came out.

Everything went black, and the last thing I heard was a heavy _thud_ against the table.

* * *

It wasn't too long after when I started coming back around, and I heard Vasquez say, "He's waking up . . . Drake? Drake, can you hear me?"

My vision focused, and I saw everyone standing over me, looking concerned. Dietrich was holding her medical bag, about to put a blood pressure cuff around my left arm. My mind had gone blank, and I had no idea what to say or do, other than mumble, "What happened?"

To be honest, I knew what happened. I had gotten so overwhelmed by my trauma that I shut down and passed out. I couldn't admit that, though, not in front of two high-ranking officers who could tear up my contract and ship me out of here without a second thought.

"You passed out in front of the brass." Vasquez handed me a water bottle and helped me sit up, allowing me to see that I was lying on the floor of the mess hall.

"That you did," Russell said, kneeling by me. "Is this a regular occurrence for you?"

"N-No, sir," I replied. "I . . . I guess I held my breath for too long."

"Well, for that response, I'm ashamed of you, Private. Where on God's good Earth did you get the idea that holding your breath was going to be impressive? Hardy's not some kind of animal that you need to cower in fear over. What Hardy and I demand from you, and the rest, is respect." Russell looked at Hicks. "You really want him to get a medal?"

"Yes, sir," Hicks replied.

I was stunned. Russell had been extraordinarily kind to me when I saw him in Washington. _What changed? What've I done wrong?_

Russell sighed as he stood up, and glanced at Hardy before looking at the rest of us. "We'll be staying here for the next four days. If Drake can prove he's worthy, I'll decorate him myself. If not, try again."

* * *

I couldn't get to sleep after that. More and more, I felt like people were prodding at me, trying to make me upset to the point where I blew up and told them exactly how I felt. I knew doing that wouldn't help, but I don't know how much longer I can keep myself bottled up. Worse yet, I'm aware that it isn't healthy.

Remembering Miranda, I took her letter from my nightstand drawer and opened it. Even though it had only been a week since I left D.C., I was starting to miss her. I could've vented to her and felt somewhat better. But, that's impossible now, and it created a sensation of pathetic hopelessness as I read her letter.

" _Hi, Mark! Hope you're doing OK. Everything's going OK with me and Mathias. Well, not so much with Mathias, though; things went back to normal when we got back to the university. I'm writing this in between removing a fake appendix and writing a paper on the procedure. At least Mathias isn't as sad as he was before. He's trying to be a good sport, but that's pretty hard with a condition as painful as appendicitis.  
_

_"I know it hasn't been very long, but I miss hanging out with you. There's a lot going on that I would've liked to go to if you were still here. A lot of the beaches on the Chesapeake Bay have opened. The semester's ending soon and we're taking trips to amusement parks. You probably couldn't go with us, but it'd be nice to sneak off and meet up with you.  
_

_"I don't know if you're busy or not, so I won't hold you down long. Best of luck and lots of hugs. - Miranda._ "

I gave a heavy sigh, wishing I could go do something as carefree as hide out in an amusement park to wait for Miranda so we could wander around and do what we pleased. I don't think I could do that with so many responsibilities on my mind.

As I folded up the letter and put it back in my nightstand, I heard a knock at the door, and Vasquez entered without me asking who was there. She took the piece of marble cake from her pocket, unwrapped it, and told me to open my mouth. Before I could say "Why?" she shoved the cake between my teeth. "Don't ask any questions. Just enjoy it." She sat next to me, and waited for me to finish the cake before asking, "How come you passed out when Hardy was talking to you?"

"Wait, I can't ask questions, but you can?" I said.

"I'm not trying to be funny, Drake."

"Alright. Well, I tried to control my breathing, and . . . and I started thinking about what happened on that station. I started thinking about what had happened to Hudson when I pulled him out of the lab on the mainland. I felt like my heart was trying to beat its way out of my ribs and my throat closed up and I just couldn't breathe."

"You were having a flashback?"

I nodded. "You could put it that way, yeah."

There was silence between us for a few minutes, until Vasquez sighed. "So, you really _can't_ pull yourself out of the past."

I shook my head.

"Had a feeling you were right. I'm the one who should be sorry because I told you to jump out of the damn hamster wheel already, even though you can't."

"Don't be sorry. You just didn't understand, and that's fine." I offered a weak smile. "I can pull through this."

Vasquez didn't seem to believe me, but she managed to smirk as well. "I really hope you put effort into this."

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. "It's almost ten. Were you gonna go back to your room, or do you want to stay here with me?"

"I'll stay with you." Vasquez threw back the covers, crawling into the bed and moving closer to me. "'Night, Drake."

She seemed to be asleep as soon as she put her head on the pillow. I was still awake, though, and my mind was still wandering. I wished I didn't lie to Vasquez about pulling through my issues. I wished I had the courage to tell her about the GED.

I just wished I could tell her I felt like I was never going to be OK.

* * *

We both almost had a heart attack when we awoke to hear Russell banging on our doors at five-thirty in the morning.

"Everybody up! No more sleeping in, grunts! Rise and shine! I want all your asses outside and by your doors, _now!_ " he was yelling.

"Shit, Drake, what're we gonna do?" Vasquez whispered, rubbing her eyes as she sat up.

"Pray for a miracle," I groaned.

It didn't take long for my prayers to be answered. A second later, we heard Hudson howl, " _I need air! I NEED AIR!_ " before throwing up in his toilet.

"There's our miracle," I said as Russell barged into Hudson's room.

Vasquez dashed out of my room, shoving open the door to hers, and emerging in her PT gear. I was slower, lazily taking off my boxers and replacing them with cargo shorts. I didn't even bother with a shirt as I got outside, closing the door behind me.

". . . Take a deep breath, now, Hudson. It's alright. You're not in that lab," Russell said calmly.

I glanced in the direction of his voice, and heard Hudson gasp for air.

"Take your time, OK? Everything's alright." Russell left the room, and glared at the rest of us. He walked down the hall, giving nods of approval to everyone . . . except me. "Where the hell is your shirt, Private?"

I gulped. "It's . . . um . . . in my room."

It was pretty obvious Russell didn't take any kind of excuses. At least, not from me. "Put a shirt on." He didn't say anything more, and just gave me a hard look.

Hudson stepped out of his room, paler than a sheet of ice. Silver-tinged sweat was running down his face, and he was shivering. He took a ragged breath, struggling to calm down. Again, I hoped whatever was in his medication wouldn't "activate" and drive him nuts. That's the absolute last thing we need in front of an officer, much less two.

I looked at him sympathetically. "You doing OK?"

"Who said you could talk, Private?!" Russell shouted at me. "Go get your fucking shirt on, and come back out here!" He turned to Hudson. "You feeling a little better?"

What little control Hudson had over his expression quickly faded away. The sweat on his face became mixed with tears.

I thought back to the conversation we had yesterday, and how Hudson told me he kept hearing voices tell him to quit. Were they at their loudest now?

Truth be told, I didn't want to see Hudson humiliate himself, not after all he's been through, but a sneaky part of me was whispering, _Let him break down. Russell won't take too kindly to that. You'll be put on the same level. No more special treatment._

So, I did nothing.

Russell's expression didn't change. "Take a moment to catch your breath, alright?" he said to Hudson before moving down the line.

I wanted to scream "Why?" but I knew that wouldn't help.


End file.
